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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139978">Minecraft Stories for the Bored and Blocky</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zazibine/pseuds/Zazibine'>Zazibine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Hermitcraft RPF, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...sort of, ARCTIC EMPIRE, Alternate Universe - Gods &amp; Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Class Issues, Denial, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Family, Enderman Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Legends, Mafia AU, Mental Health Issues, Origin Story, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rebellion, The Void, Tommyinnit in Hermitcraft, Tragedy, Urban Fantasy, Voidwalker Xisumavoid (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Charles | Grian, city life, implied drugging of a minor, possessive Tubbo, story ideas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:48:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139978</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zazibine/pseuds/Zazibine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of my minecraft-themed stories featuring much beloved characters from the Dream SMP and Hermitcraft. Will also sometimes contain outlines and general story ideas. Also, I'm leaving it marked as "complete," but this will likely be updated with new ideas fairly often.</p><p>1) Ranboo- The Void Sings of Silence<br/>2) Wilbur- All the Ghosts That I Once Knew<br/>3) Philza- Bound in Blood of Poisonous Desire (What Crimes Shall He Commit?)<br/>4) Tommy and the Hermits- Heartstone P. 1<br/>5) iJevin- Heartstone AU- Lethe<br/>6) Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone Part 2<br/>7) Hermitcraft Cast- Sky's Limit<br/>8) Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone Part 3<br/>9)Ranboo and Tubbo- Boom</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, tubbo and ranboo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ranboo- The Void Sings of Silence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Characters: Ranboo<br/>Warnings: None</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say the stars are ancient, built from the dregs of old universes, fed upon the dust of even older stars that came long before. The void is older, the End is oldest yet. They live in paradox, those beings of light and falling shadow. Nobody encapsulates that more than those denizens who live in the places between, those of long twigged limbs and spiraling shells and purple stems that curl in on themselves like fractals. They have been twisted by the wars of the stars, their biology shifted to mirror each side's purpose. Dream is smart, you know. The End is off limits for a reason. </p>
<p>Ranboo doesn't know where he came from. It's likely for the best.</p>
<p>What do you name a child of the void and stars? One who's very body perfectly mirrors the universe in its infighting, who's so slender and frail, it seems like it ought to have collapsed in on itself long ago. Who's black hole bones conceal hidden strength, even as it starves and feeds in cycles, yet never seems to change. Certainly nothing normal. (The void has always liked its Os, the circle of infinity as much as a sound. The stars like the surprise of it better. An O for each, then. Yes, the perfect beginning of a name.)</p>
<p>(Let's pretend that the universe actually knows that most of its denizens read from left to right.) </p>
<p>But what of our boy, who is older than he seems and yet younger by far than that which birthed him? While the void longs to consume, the stars long to expand. To feed the void in his soul, the boy's memories are forfeit. The history of them consumed as remembrance that all is immaterial and even time shall fade. The desires of stars are a little harder to satisfy.</p>
<p>Some days, Ranboo stares up at the night sky and stretches up on his tiptoes, fingers outstretched, as if he can claim a piece of it for himself. Some days, he seems just a bit taller than before, walks just a bit more lightly, more quietly, as if he’s being pulled by a thread somewhere up and far away. He doesn’t notice, of course. No one does. But some days, something burns low and hot in his gut, a desire for something he’s too scared to name, and things go black for a few days. The world is always on fire when he reawakens.</p>
<p>(Justice, it’s called. Or as the stars say it, taking back what is rightfully theirs. How dare the void claim their light. Supernovas are a star’s way of screaming out into the black that nothing is right, will never be right again. And they die screaming, screaming to make a difference.)</p>
<p>(Ranboo deserves... p̴̃ͅê̸̱a̷̖͝c̴̭̎ě̸̯ ̶͉t̸͓̔r̴͉͂ḯ̸͖b̴̫̔u̴͖̐t̷͖͒e̸͎͝ ̴̖̍ḑ̶̓e̶͓͌a̴̲͛ṙ̵͜g̷̺͗ó̷ͅd̷͇̎m̸̥̉a̷̡̒k̷̲̏ȅ̵̠i̵̳̔t̸̺͛s̴̲̈́t̴̯̿o̴̼̽p̵͉̒ ̵͕͆e̴̲̓v̵͖̒ē̴̗r̶̚ͅy̷̡t̶͍̅h̴̰̀i̴͓͐n̴̳͒g̵̫͂ ̴̥n̷͉͑o̴̱͝ț̵͒h̷̹͐i̴͈̊n̶̐͜g̸̰̐ ̶̧͐f̵̻̃r̶̮̄ê̵̡ë̸͙́d̶͉͝o̵̰͑m̸̲̓ ̵̰̾f̵̥͑ŏ̴̹ȑ̶̨f̵͚̉e̷̙̎i̸͍͂t̶͕̾ ̶͇͛V̷̨̗̳̪͕̤̙̋̐̔̅̓Ǫ̸͕̹̐Ĩ̶̹͕̜͈̱̮̌̚͠Ḑ̸͕̋̓͆ )</p>
<p>(...Ranboo deserves better.)</p>
<p>The stresses mount and a piece of Ranboo screams as the world shatters around around him. Peace was never an option, but the silence of the void is built into his core, and he reaches to take it anyway. Everything goes black, a piece of him dies just a little, and when he reawakens, justice is served in fire. And if not? Well, a bit of revenge never goes amiss either way.</p>
<p>He forgets this, of course. He always does.</p>
<p>(The void doesn’t care for the troubles of mortal beings. The stars scream their swan song, a last “fuck you” to the finality of silence, and the ink of the universe swallows it down, down, down.)</p>
<p>Ranboo forgets. Forgets as the battles of the cosmos wages war through the cells of his body, as the white of his freckles winks out bit by bit as the stars above spin out of orbit and collide. Today, Ranboo is mostly void, partially stars. Someday, that will change. But not for a while. Not yet. Some things are better left forgotten.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Wilbur- All the Ghosts That I Once Knew</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>characters: Wilbur Soot, Tommy, Technoblade<br/>warnings: amnesia, implied character death</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A story in which Wilbur is... lost. Drifting. He had a home, once, and a family and loved ones, and and and... He can’t remember it, now. He’s not sure he wants to.</p><p>(Amnesia is a bitch).</p><p>Home is a cardboard box. Not that he lives in one, of course, but rather that his whole life can be packaged up in one. Six photographs. A box of cigarettes and an empty lighter. A page of sheet music for a song he has yet to learn. An apple core, dried up but given to him by someone precious. A scorched feather. New things. Old things, scattered in amidst the debris of whatever new life the Matron has given him. He supposes he’s a bit like that cardboard box too- he falls apart when he gets too soggy. The tears he hides in his pillow are testament to that. </p><p>He wonders if the other boys in the orphanage have homes like his. Are they constructed of cardboard too, or are their foundations any sturdier than his? He thinks so. There’s a blond boy, two years younger than him, who seems an awful lot like that black garbage bag he hauls about. Usually it’s pretty billowy and the boy will wear it like a cape around his neck while he plays, even though the Matron yells at him for it. Not that the boy listens, of course, he just goes right back to jumping out of trees with that black bag swept around him like a parachute. Wilbur has to hide a grin, whenever he sees that. Flight suits the boy, he thinks. He’s too bright to stay grounded for long. </p><p>And other days, the days when that kid gets shipped out to whatever family has decided they wanted that bright-hearted boy, he seems stretched out. Thin. The black bag filled to bursting with the detritus of his life, thrown in without care until it bulges at odd corners, threatening to rip at the seams. He seems fragile, as he looks up at the windows from where Wilbur is watching, kicking and screaming and protesting all the while. Is it really so bad, being sent to a place other than the orphanage? He supposes he wouldn’t know, but given that the blond boy is dumped right back on their door step within the week pretty consistently, he supposes it is. </p><p>Wilbur could always ask, of course. But he won’t. He’s two years older and the only time he sees kids other than those in his age bracket is at meals, and even then they try to keep them all separated by year. Something about keeping bullying to a minimum. </p><p>There’s another kid that’s caught his interest too, although this one is more of a puzzle. A year older with pink hair like a “delinquent” or whatever that means, at first he struck Wilbur as something like a locked safe. Too big and bulky for the room, and twice as hard to crack. The matron seems scared of him for some reason, although she never seems to back down whenever he starts shouting. It’s impressive, too, given that whenever the pink-haired boy looks over at him during the daily shouting match at lunch, his jade green eyes seem to pierce him right down to his soul. Brrr... Scary. </p><p>Wilbur had shuddered at first, whenever the older boy had glanced at him in the halls, frozen by the ice in his eyes. It had seemed like he had locked all of his warmth deep, deep down. That opinion had changed, of course. The pink-haired boy is no safe- and even if he was, he wouldn’t be a good one because somehow, someway, Wilbur already has the key.</p><p>The boys from different age blocks aren’t supposed to interact. This isn’t always quite the case. A dropped match while trying to light a candle, a cabinet full of cleaning supplies, and a fireball too large for comfort and he found himself on punishment detail with the pink-haired boy himself. Peeling potatoes of all things.</p><p>The pink-haired boy’s name is Technoblade. He had two brothers and a dad with a secret and he loved them all very much. The secret was very big and very dangerous, and life was hard because their dad couldn’t work but Techno was the best farmer and could grow all sorts of food in the garden, so they never went hungry. They all got sick of potatoes pretty quick though.</p><p>Wilbur had just smiled and nodded. It was a nice story, and he told the pink-haired boy as much. What happened next? How did the dad die? He must’ve, if he had ended up in the orphanage with him. The pink-haired boy had looked at him, then, and the jade of his eyes had shattered. </p><p>He’s no good with crying people, and he’s tried to stay out of trouble since. He doesn’t want to make anyone cry ever again, even if he isn’t quite sure what he did just yet. </p><p>But yeah. Definitely not a safe. Maybe a refrigerator or something? All cold and stuff until it gets unplugged and then everything in it just melts. Although, having a refrigerator as your home is a bit mental. At least, he thinks so. Is he losing track of his metaphors again? Some days, Wilbur isn’t really all there and it shows.</p><p>But yeah. Cardboard, trash bag, and dead refrigerator. All the makings of a perfect garbage heap. Maybe they should start a group or something.</p><p>A little trash family all his own. </p><p>Ha. Wilbur turns back to the sheet music in his lap and tries to make sense of the notes, of the tune that floats through his mind, faint as a dream.</p><p>Ha. As if he could be so lucky.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Philza- Bound in Blood of Poisonous Desire (What Crimes Shall He Commit?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>characters: Philza, Wilbur, Tommy, Technoblade<br/>warnings: general moral grayness, implied genocide</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A story in which Philza is a deity. Five years on a hard core world, enough near scares to kill most normal beings through sheer number of heart attacks alone, and an Ending that wasn’t enough so he broke through clear to the other side.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="">
  <p>And came out with wings. And a crown. And glowing red heart, lodged right in the center of his chest, beating to the tune of immortality. Yes. Philza is a god. But what mortal with any sense has ever wanted such a thing?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Philza had been excited at first, he never was a man with much sense so much as determination and a will strong enough to flatten the desires of a world out to kill him. He had been nigh-on ecstatic to never need to worry about perma-death again. Finally, he could traverse his hardcore world without fear and reach for the stars as he always longed to do. He could construct castles, conquer the End and slay the Nether’s demons- all without the constant worry that he would run out of time. Now, he had all the time in the world.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And he used it to build.</p>
  <p>Castles. Armaments. Machines of redstone and wires that did the impossible. He flooded worlds that had never before seen water and reaped the lives of its inhabitants for his own personal gain. He had all the time in the world, after all- what was a bit of genocide? He could just wait for the next generation and slay them too. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then, finally, when immortality had lost its luster and every rock and tree and cube of dirt had his mark, he built the most important thing yet- a family.</p>
  <p>A piglin adopted from a Nether that had grown too tough for its denizens, fiercer and hotter in attempt to keep its winged god from plundering its depths. A little boy dressed in a yellow sweater, outcast by a village that couldn’t handle another mouth to feed. A wild child of red and white, ferocious in his temper and fragile in his kindness, who had grown loud in an attempt to be noticed by a world too occupied with survival to care. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Those resources had had to come from somewhere. (And the children paid the price.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>All three loved him, of course, almost as much as they had feared his wrath in the beginning. For Philza was a player and the world a game, and for all that the Guardians of the End preached love and connection, there exist ways to skip their message. And for a being with all the time in the world, who had an unending future and impossible possibilities to get to- who was so, so excited to get started, well. Can you blame him? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But yes. The children learned to love him. For all that he had been the cause of their problems and for all that he ignored the destruction that he caused, he had seen something in them, in their suffering, and had taken them with him to his castle in the North. Philza had seen them where the world had ignored them, had given them a chance to be children. Is it so surprising that they grew loyal? That they learned of love from the very being who slayed the old gods who preached it? In that castle in the North, made frozen by time, he treated them kindly, had wiped their tears and sheltered them in his wings. And there the god of the world devised a scheme that would shake their world to its very code. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Let it be said that Philza was not a bad man. Indeed, the suffering of others hurt him most fiercely and he was a staunch defender of those he loved best. His biggest flaws were ones inherent to most mortals- ignorance and selfishness. But where in mortals these were excusable, in gods the consequences radiated out into the world like ripples on a pond. His ignorance? That only players were people- a common misconception. His selfishness? That which he loved was worth... everything. And as established, he had not yet grown enough wisdom to know the consequences of his actions. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Philza loved and loved fiercely. He had ignored the Guardians of the End and had later pillaged their home and slain their children. These are not contradictions, for Philza never loved anything he had not built himself. And his tiny family, his Tommy, Wilbur, and Techno? For them, he would destroy the world. And he did. Miles and miles of stone stripped away for the walls of the grandest of castles, thousands of sheep for warm carpet and entire mountainsides of trees for fire and furniture. Enchanted swords and diamonds gear, a new set each year for the three princes as the grew- and that’s what the children were, now. Princes. And he made them crowns to prove it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Philza loved his children and wanted the world for them. And in their name he built an empire, based far out in the freezing arctic where the princes would never see the devastation that had nearly led to their demise so long ago. He named it the Arctic empire, crowned his precious boys as princes, and spread word of their names to every listening ear in the land. And the princes, who now had the riches of the world at their fingertips after so long of having nothing, were happy. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But to Philza, it was not enough. He was a god, a player, and as such had higher expectations. For what are the riches of mortals to those who would live to see even diamonds degrade to dust? So he learned how to hop from world to world just for his sons and set out to plunder those places too. He brought back precious stones and prismarine, stories of technology and advancements that their world had yet to experience. And for his sons, for their world, Philza brought back code. He updated the fabric of reality itself beyond its previous limits to see his children smile. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(Pandas were cute, right? Every kid loved cute things. Welp, off to go break a world down to its foundations to find the piece of code that he needs so his kids could have a cute new animal to play with. It’s not like he had built the place, right? And there were no players, about he had checked. So he was free to do as a pleased. And there would be no consequences at all.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(And in doing so, he left his sons alone.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno, life had been amazing so far. The cruelties of life had driven them all to bad habits, but their time with Philza had softened their edges in some ways, although they had been sharpened in others. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For the piglin Techno, his thirst for strength in a world determined to keep him down was, if not satisfied, then at least well-directed. The best armor money could buy and hours to practice? It was a dream come true and soon he became the best fighter in the land. And with the assurance that the world would never be able to lay him low again, he was content. (And if he became desperate to cling to what was his, came to despise governments for what they had done to his Wilbur, came to love the chaos that had been bred into his brother Tommy’s soul, well. The moniker of “The Blade” suited him well.) </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For the villager child Wilbur, words bled into him from every angle and he reveled in their beauty. For so long his life had been nothing but scornful silence from the villagers that resented his birth, but with the soaring libraries and halls of music Philza had built for him, he found his passion. A guitar in hand and a song on his lips, he drove away the silence in his heart and wrote poetry for all that he held dear. (And if he practiced until his fingers bled, cursed himself for losing control every time his voice wavered, went over his sheet music so often his mind went numb, too focused on total mastery until perfection was obtained, well. For the ability to sing the perfect lullaby to bring his brothers the sleep they so desperately needed? It was worth it.) </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For Tommy, true to himself in all the best and worst ways, control over anything but himself was never an option. Call it a consequence of his birth. The villagers had joked that he must of sprung from the earth fully formed for they could not picture him as anything other than what he was- a nuisance. They had pulled the world out from under his feet time and time again, some days rewarding him for his pranking, other times driving him away. Tommy had never had a home before Philza and his brothers, and he was desperate to keep his place with them.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But he would not change himself to suit their needs. It was the one thing Tommy had always had, and even the circlet of gold around his head could not shift his nature. And with his new-found family, that was okay, for they seemed to cherish him regardless. His chaotic tendencies were met with mild annoyance at worst and love-filled laughter at best, and at every turn he was welcome to listen, to learn, to fight and fly and be free. Under the sheltering wings of his found father, he was allowed to be himself to his fullest extent. And with the weight of their love and attention on his shoulders, he bloomed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(And if he never outgrew that need to cling to what little he had? If his brothers had asked- truly asked- he would have given his identity up for them anyway? If he built them monuments based on what they should be, thought the arms around his shoulders that protected him from uncertainty to be unshakable? Well...)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(Philza left and the walls came crumbling down.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The trio of brothers reacted poorly to their father’s absence and like a garden left unpruned, they began to grow into their new freedom in strange ways. The world was theirs to do with as they pleased and no longer were there any consequences to their actions, for Philza’s was the only authority higher than their own. Techno went out into the world, left behind the shelter of their Arctic castle, and started wars just so that he may fight them. He became known as “The Blood God” despite his mortality, for no man was better at fighting than he.  When Wilbur came of age, he too left, setting out to spread his music with the world. Where his oldest brother sought blood, he in turn sought adventure, and everywhere he went he played his songs to audiences big and small alike. To those who welcomed him, he blessed them with good fortune, but to those who cursed him and attempted to drive him out as his old village had so long ago, he cursed them in turn by playing music designed to bring pain to those who heard it. For this, he became known as “The Mad Bard,” and he was worshiped too. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For Tommy, forgotten and left behind, as alone as he was in the beginning, things were harder. Where was the attention that he was so used to, the sheltering wings that comforted him when the past voices of those who hated him rang in his ears? Surely his brothers would realize their mistake, surely. But they never did. And while Techno killed great beasts and Wilbur charmed people out of their wealth, Tommy stayed alone in the castle, waiting for the day when they would come back. And slowly, as years passed and the trio grew from children to young men, stories began to circulate about him too. Wasn’t there a third prince? What had happened to him, locked up in that massive castle in the cold? Was he in need of rescue? Was he lonely?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>What was his name again? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Theseus, it was Theseus... I think.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Right, of course, Theseus. Theseus, who was locked up in the castle, the third prince, the missing one. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And so tales of the three brothers spread, and it was to these stories that Philza came back to, proud of what they had accomplished in his absence. Techno, so skilled! A true survivor, just like him. Wilbur, so gentle, treating the mortals with kindness. And Tommy, obedient Tommy, who had waited and waited and waited. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Philza called all three to the Origin Point of the world and the brothers came running, ecstatic and scared and angry and overjoyed that their father was back after so long. There, he hugged them close and whispered to them of a gift he would like to give them, the greatest that he could ever give. Oh how he loved them, really, truly. Would you like to see? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And with that, Philza plucked that little red heart from his chest and broke it into three. For Philza was a god who loved and loved deeply, and a mortal with all the flaws that entailed, and a father who despaired at the idea of his mortal sons ever leaving his side. And so he broke that little heart into three and had his precious princes swallow a piece each so that they would never die and travel beyond his reach. He did not tell them the consequences of this choice. They did not ask.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(Philza was a father who wanted to give his sons the world. The world is not synonymous with what was best for them.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And so the three boys, our three young men, were frozen in time just like their father, just like the Arctic Empire that they called home. They became players. And Techno and Wilbur, they became gods. Tommy... didn’t.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For godhood requires belief beyond measure, an assurance from the universe that you are too special to ever be mortal. For survivors like Philza and fighters like Technoblade and musicians like Wilbur, such a thing is easy. The world was all too eager to label them something beyond mortal kin. But Tommy? Tommy, the child who never outgrew himself and his love for his brothers, for stability, for home? There were no stories about him, or at least none under his actual name. And so, mortal Tommy would have stayed if not for the belief his brothers and father had in him- and through their love, a demigod he became. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But yes. Godhood. Locked into a role and a legend, forever unchanged by the passage of time- flaws and all. That twisted growth, those little hitches in their souls that caught on the rough edges of the world and had them lashing out, sent other people screaming? Those were locked in too. It is for this reason that Philza remained foolish, unaware of the consequences of his actions, and why Techno would forever hate governments and love chaos, why Wilbur would fight the world for control, why Tommy would cling to what was his with everything he had, come hell or high water. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And used to the freedom Philza’s long absence had created, the four went their separate ways and set out into the multiverse again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Dream SMP would never know what hit it.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>characters: Tommyinnit, pretty much all of the Hermits + Evil X<br/>warnings: implied character death, lots of angst</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So this builds off of the whole "Tommy has somehow found himself on Hermitcraft after the exile arc" thing that got really popular with Redorich over on tumblr. Basically it's an excuse to give Tommy therapy and 20+ parent figures. One thing that's a common thread in those stories is that Tommy is shocked that Hermitcraft has infinite respawns and all of the hermits are quick to reassure him that he really won't perma-die in their world. And, well, I had the thought- well, what if he wasn't in their world anymore?</p><p>It begins like this. Evil X is stuck in the void, alone and with no one to talk to. He misses daylight, he misses touch, he misses hearing voices other than his own. One day, he sees something get shot through the void as if by slingshot, leaving a trail of code in its wake, tethering the whatever it is back the way it came. This is Tommy, and while he begins to get adjusted to Hermitcraft and company, Evil X watches as the string of code begins to imprint itself into the void, and eventually learns that he can interact with it, albeit only on the most superficial of levels. On Tommy's end, he slowly begins to heal from his time spent in the war zone that is the Dream SMP, making fast friends with Grian and several of the other hermits in the process. He goes pranking with his newest, winged older brother figure, laughs at the antics of Impulse, Tango, and Zedaph, builds a cobblestone tower with BDubs, etc. But for all that he's healing, such a process isn't linear. No one on the server can truly understand just what sort of stuff he has been through, and so he often finds himself alone, trying to deal with his wildest emotions by talking to himself.</p><p>One day, however, a little voice in his head starts talking back. It's rough and gravelly and not very nice at first, but it's faint enough that he chalks it up to his imagination and moves on with his life. He follows Stress around like a duckling for a day, plays squire for Welsknight, and has a roaring panic attack after an unfortunate spar with False leads to him getting flashbacks to the Pit with Technoblade. He retreats back to his tower for a good cry, and in the midst of his tears, he hears the voice again. This time it's a bit nicer, sounding unsure and a bit panicky as it tries to encourage him to stop crying, god this is awkward, kid, it'll be fine. Wait, are you a kid? You seem tall for a munchkin.</p><p>This time, Tommy knows that it isn't his imagination, but half of his old server seemed to have voices in their heads so he really isn't all that alarmed that he seemed to have developed one of his own too. And he does something that no one else does when Evil X reaches out- he starts talking back. It's rough going, at first, especially since both of them have abrasive personalities, but eventually they settle into a rough estimation of friendship that means more to them then they are willing to say. From Evil X's perspective, this is the first time someone has actually listened to him and hasn't been turned away by his violent streak, his bad manners, and lack of proper social skills. For Tommy, this is a chance to vent to someone who seems to understand his pain. It helps that neither of them are inclined to ask too many questions. Tommy, on his part, has no clue that Evil X is an actual person and not a voice in his head, while Evil X can't bring himself to ask why Tommy has left a trail of code in the void and why it's all so glitched. He especially fears asking about the perma-death clause that seems to naturally have occurred in his code.</p><p>He will come to regret this choice.</p><p>The day is like any other, at first. He begins his day with a slice of sweet melon and then flies off to whatever hermits are awake at the time to "share a meal with them." Really, it started as an excuse to make sure that Tommy was eating at least one meal day, even in his most dissociative of states, but has since turned into an opportunity to eat weird things in front of people to see their reactions. (Etho is his favorite. He's always up early and half the time, asks to try a bite of whatever Tommy is having. They both agree that spider eyes taste a lot like sour boba.) From there it's off to the shopping district to restock his dirt shop and claim his share of the profits from the hole-digging service he runs with Grian. After that, there's just enough time to complete an order or two and collect more cobble and dirt before he has to meet up with Grian to go on their biweekly End Busting session. The two usually have a lot of fun as they go about it, Tommy jokingly shoving Grian off the platform only for his adopted brother to catch himself and fly up to join him on the narrow platform spanning the emptiness once again. Every once in a while, Grian mock-threatens to do the same in return, but he knows better than to actually attempt it after he did it once and had had to catch Tommy when he started screaming and even after they had gotten back to solid ground, he wouldn't stop for the better part of half an hour. </p><p>On habits die hard, after all. Tommy may have been told time and time again by everyone on the server that infinite respawns are a thing, yes really, but he still has a hard time believing it. He actually has a rather insane number of levels racked up- even more than Xisuma, which is impressive- because in all the months that he has been on Hermitcraft, he hasn't died once. It's a combination of survival skills taught to him by Philza and his own paranoia which has kept him alive for so long, and most of the hermits agree that it is rather impressive, if not entirely healthy for him to be so scared of dying. (Doc once offered to kill him as evidence that yes, it really is safe here and you will respawn, but for all that death by crazy redstone machine might of been cool, Tommy took a hard pass on that. Grian low key took exception to Doc offering to kill his adopted little brother, really man? Not cool.) </p><p>Anyway, Grian and Tommy meet up in the End and start off bridging with the insane amount of cobble that Tommy has stored up. Usually Tommy is in front, placing the stones, and Grian is in back, watching out for any sign of a slip up, but this time they decide to switch it up a bit, head in a new direction, play around with who's doing what this time. It ends... poorly. They bridge out into the black, on and on and on, farther into the void than they ever have before. Slowly, the islands of floating white stone stop appearing with such frequency, but they become larger in size and stranger in shape. Every once in a while Grian will see what he swears to be a glowing white mountain of Endstone in the distance, although Tommy calls bullshit each and every time. They chalk it all up to bad luck and going nuts from boredom, but really, neither one of them knows how to quit while they're ahead. As the islands disappear altogether and all that remains to orient themselves is the tenuous lifeline of cobblestone beneath their feet, the unthinkable happens.</p><p>Grian slips. And Tommy, taught compassion by the very world that will now kill him, reaches out to save him.</p><p>For one, brief moment, the two brothers clasp hands- and then Grian's weight pulls Tommy right over the edge and down, down, down into the void below. </p><p>
  <em>Grian fell out of the world.</em>
</p><p><em><strong>Tommy</strong> fell out of the world... </em>and into a new one. </p><p>----</p><p>Xisuma wakes up late that day. He's been doing that a lot, if he's honest, given how late he's staying up most nights finishing up builds and the like. Those hours of sleep have to come from somewhere, after all, and he's far from an early bird. He gives into the impulse to relax a bit, drinking some tea sweetened with just enough honey to rot his teeth, and then heads off to his computer room to start up his duties as admin for the day. It's the red lights that alert him to something being wrong, and at first, he thinks it's just one of hermits' cam accounts being buggy again. Perhaps it got shut off while the hermit was bridging through the void and the hermit in question simply hadn't retrieved it yet? But who would name their cam account Tommyinnit? The looming dread sits cold in his gut as he flicks his fingers to open up his admin panel... Best to check, just in case.</p><p>The death messages are clear enough- Keralis had just perished to a ravager yesterday, likely Tango's from Decked Out if he had to guess. Zedaph had been slain by a piglin twenty minutes ago. And Grian and Tommy had fallen into the void. But if that were the case... why had only one of them respawned?</p><p>On Grian's part, he comes to with a lingering chill deep in his bones and an awful headache. The bed underneath him is warm and the sheets are a soft rosy color, likely one of the ones in Scar's magical village if the persistent smell of spruce is anything to go by. He winces against the light filtering through the window and turns to the side, squinting at where Tommy had placed his blue bed right next to his, apology on his lips for his stupid mistake. The sheets are undisturbed. Huh. That's weird, he could have sworn that he and Tommy had set their respawn points at the same time. Maybe Tommy had just forgotten and he was back in his base or at spawn? Grian rises to his feet slowly, giving his body time to adjust to the colors and sounds of the Overworld, then flaps his wings and takes off to go looking for his Tommy.</p><p>He doesn't find him. </p><p>---</p><p>The reactions to Tommy's "death" are many and varied, although for the most part, the hermits are split into two camps- those that think Tommy is gone for good, and those that think he may still be out there somewhere. For the first few days of Tommy's disappearance, most everyone is in the latter camp. Xisuma spends hours upon hours scanning the code, becoming increasingly more frazzled and terrified as his lack of sleep gets to him. Tango and Doc join him in the endeavor, although none of them have any luck or are able to spot the piece of code that caused the problem. No additions, no changes to the text, nothing. Grian leads the other team, those who set out on foot and one wing and with pick in hand to scour the world for their youngest charge, taken from them too soon. They begin in a grid pattern, setting out in ones and twos to search the whole world, but as the distance increases, the neat, orderly flyovers turn into frenzied boosting as panic starts to get the better of them. Some of them hold onto their composure better than others, but Grian ends up flying over the same patch of forest three times because he can't see for his tears. False, Impulse, Welsknight, and Beef cross the Nether, fighting their way into Bastion after Bastion and leaving Nether portals in their wake. In their tracks comes the fliers- Grian, Ren, Iskall, and BDubs. Each one takes a portal and does a sweep through the corresponding patch of Overworld before picking a direction to continue the search. Cubfan, iJevin, and Scar take to the seas, Mumbo, Stress, xB, and Zedaph to the End, Etho down into the depths of the caves below. Strangely enough, there are a few hermits who don't join the search- Keralis, who got the unlucky task of taking care of Xisuma and the others searching through the code, Tinfoilchef, who doesn't provide a reason but everyone gives him a pass because of his age, and Joe Hills and Zombie Cleo, who refuse to explain themselves. </p><p>Eventually, the searches dry up. Eventually, some of the hermits admit defeat. Hundreds of thousands of blocks out from spawn, down to the bedrock below, beneath sea and sky and every place that lacks the sun. How far is too far? For Xisuma, enough is enough. Tommy is dead. The search is over. </p><p>He stops looking. And soon, others do the same. </p><p>And the tone of the server... shifts.</p><p>For the first time that any of them can remember, a person has perma-died. Sure, they've all heard the rumors, of servers where infinite respawns is not the norm, of servers where the world glitched and a creeper is supercharged enough to damage a player down to their code. But they'd never thought that one of their own would be on the receiving end of such a curse. And to the hermits, the possibility of dying themselves suddenly becomes all too real. The constant flying is the first to go, and for those that insist on it anyway (outside of Grian, who has wings), checking the elytras' durability becomes more than just a habit. Eating spider eyes and other junk is out of the question, now it's golden apples or nothing. The Nether is all but abandoned, as is the End, and everyone on the server either groups up so that they are never alone, or retreats into their bases, becoming true hermits befitting of their server's name. </p><p>The joy that had once been so characteristic of the server is gone, and in the hearts of all, there lingers the dread that any one of them might be next- although, there are still those that hold on to hope that Tommy may not be as gone as he seems.</p><p>---</p><p>The hermits who think Tommy is dead for good and have stopped searching: Doc, Etho, Xisuma, Welsknight, VintageBeef, Grian, BDubs, Cubfan, TinfoilChef, Stress, False, Iskall.</p><p>The hermits who think Tommy is still out there, alive if still missing, and that the search should continue: Keralis, Mumbo, Tango, Vintage Beef, Impulse, Zedaph, Joe Hills, Zombie Cleo, Scar, Rendog.</p><p>Doc and Etho are old. They don't like to admit it, but they've been around since the beginning, back when players were first learning how to jump servers and communicator technology was undergoing its first upgrade. They've seen a lot and know well by now that dead is dead. Tommy is dead. All that is left to do is mourn and move on, and they have shed their tears already. Call them cold for it, but in the face of a kind of drive that can keep a man going after his entire server has burnt down around his ears (Mindcrack will be missed), they know they need to keep moving forward. There are enough broken messes on the server these days, and it is through their efforts that shops remain stocked and the torches don't burn out. They hold onto normalcy with an iron grip and hope that some day, the rest of the hermits will join them in rationality. </p><p>Stress too has a comparatively healthy approach to all of this. She doesn't want it to be true, god no, but so far everything is pointing in the direction of Tommy being dead for good. She eats a couple dozen bowls of ice cream, has a some good cries, doesn't leave her base for a week, and even afterwards she can't bring herself to wear pink for a while. But she's mourning. She's accepted things. She lets her heart break, and as time passes, she lets herself heal. And that's enough for her.</p><p>Scar is of the opinion that Tommy is still out there, and while he clings to that hope with all his might, it's fragile and Cub just knows that his best friend is going to be cut to pieces when that hope inevitably breaks. So he takes Scar aside for a quiet conversation, to break his heart before the world can break it for him. Afterwards, Scar stops talking about Tommy as if he's coming back, but his smile is never as bright as it was before. And Cub's heart breaks too.</p><p>Team ZIT swings the exact opposite way as the rest and are firmly of the belief that permadeath is impossible and thus Tommy must be alive. The three of them aren’t known for their impulse control at the best of times, and with so many hermits having given up, the trio is rightfully vicious about the fact that the others, in their eyes, have abandoned their friend. Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango all kind of feed into one another and start doing lots of dangerous stunts, as if daring the universe to permakill them and prove them wrong. If one of them does something, the other two join in and escalate things, which gets impossibly dangerous very, very fast. Tango is furious, Impulse is bitter, and Zedaph is straight up heartbroken that his other friends would give up on another of their number. They do things like fly incredibly high, go cliff jumping in the Nether only to catch themselves at the last minute, and sprint across the End bridges. If they have doubts, they never voice them. Even when Tango feels like he’s burning up from the inside and wonders at his newfound hate. Even when Impulse is utterly terrified but goes along with things anyway because Tango is doing it and he can’t bear to leave a friend alone. Even when Zedaph looks at his friends and can’t help but feel scared of and for these strangers wearing the faces he knows so well. Even then.</p><p>Team ZIT often gets dragged into and starts lots of screaming fights with the other hermits who believe Tommy is dead, especially Doc, BDubs, Beef, and False. False especially gets vicious, as while pvp is no longer permitted on the server, her tongue is as sharp as any blade. She believes firmly that the others are trampling on Tommy’s memory by insisting that he isn’t dead and she is determined to make them stop. And if they refuse to give up their foolishness? Well, all she might have left is her words but with them she will make them <em>bleed</em>.</p><p>xB and Vintage Beef are as close to neutral as you are going to get from those that get into regular arguments. Beef thinks Tommy is dead until proven otherwise, while XB thinks the exact reverse. As some of the more chill hermits, they often get dragged in to play negotiator so that the fights don’t turn physical. And some days, when someone says something particularly hurtful, they’ll close themselves up in one of xB’s bunkers and drink until they can no longer remember why they ought to be enemies. It’s hardly healthy, but they both agree that it’s better this way. Better to forget than to hurt, after all.</p><p>Grian is… somewhat the same. Sort of. He was traumatized by Tommy, the boy he adopted as his little brother, dying before his eyes, and he can’t help but blame himself. That is, when he can remember that Tommy is dead at all. After the fall, Grian’s mind was badly broken and he couldn’t accept that his little brother was dead for the longest time. He fell into two weeks of deep depression, barely eating or drinking, and eventually Iskall came and took care of him when he realized that he hadn’t seen his buddy in ages. Iskall nursed Grian back to health, only to feel his heart shatter in his breast when Grian turned to him, eyes feverishly bright and tone childlike, asking where Tommy was. The winged man’s mind couldn’t cope with the loss so it had shut down entirely, making him forget the tragedy that had occured. Iskall had deflected then, frantically trying to figure out what to say, but after a few days of Grian wandering about in a dreamlike state, his memory came back to him and he collapsed in on himself once more. The winged hermit is now locked in a loop of this, while poor Iskall is stuck trying to keep his friend alive and relatively sane.</p><p>Iskall, for his part, thinks Tommy is well and truly dead. In part because of his own certainty, in part because anything else would be even crueler for Grian. He doesn’t resent his friend for his break downs, just quietly bundles him up and clutches him close, coaxing him to eat and bathe, to put down the guilt and realize that it’ll be okay, the world won’t end with Tommy gone. He gently tries to nudge Grian down that path of acceptance of Tommy’s fate, and though he faces many setbacks, he tackles each one with a special kind of patience born of platonic love. They’re bros, despite everything. It’s only right. </p><p>Mumbo is, weirdly enough, on the side of Tommy being alive. Iskall doesn’t exactly approve and while he and Mumbo sometimes get into whispered arguments over it, they try to keep their little disagreements from Grian. Both of them only want to see their friend happy again, and will do just about anything to make it happen. For Mumbo, this means putting together crazy redstone contraptions to try and find Tommy again, as he’s certain that Grian’s little brother is still out there somewhere- and he has a piece that might prove it. Iskall comes over one day, face drawn and haggard from a night of soothing Grian through another set of screaming nightmares, only to find Mumbo waist high in redstone wiring, all hooked up to a strange portal design that looks too much like Doc’s infinity portal from season 6 for comfort. At the top of the arch is Tommy’s compass, needle whirling about like a hurricane, and while the portal isn’t lit, it does give off a faint blue-black glow. Iskall is frightened that Mumbo is tampering with something that could get him killed and Mumbo rushes to reassure him that no, the compass was specifically linked to Tommy so if Tommy was really dead, it would have been reset, right? He’s merely borrowing that tie to try and figure out where the two ends lead. Iskall is less than sure about this, especially since Mumbo is just as drawn and pale as he is, if a bit more covered in redstone, but they agree that fighting is pointless. They care about each other and about Grian too much to put any of them through that sort of pain- and besides, there’s more than enough fighting on the server already.</p><p>Ren too thinks that Tommy is alive and he is one of the ones who gets into regular fights. He’s a lover, not a fighter, but something about this whole situation just burns him up. When the pressure gets too much, he goes flying, tracing over those old familiar trails they searched so long ago, trying to see if there is anything they missed. There never is.</p><p>Welsknight has made his peace with Tomy’s death, though the server tends to forget that he and Tommy were closer than most. He alone knew that Tommy was once upon a time a boy called Theseus (a name given to him shyly when Tommy had asked him if there were any great heroes with that name that <em> didn’t </em> die). He alone knew Tommy’s love for horses, or that he would spend hours whispering horror stories to them when he thought no one would hear. Tommy was his squire, and although he had accepted the tragedy, he still wept for the hurt it brought him. He alone knew of the little grave he had dug under the willow tree in his castle courtyard and the headstone he had placed there, engraved with Tommy’s true name, death date, and supposed date of birth. He couldn’t have been more than 17, and perhaps that was what hurt the most. Every morning at dawn, Welsknight brings a bouquet of flowers to that little grave and says a prayer before disappearing into the morning fog. The flowers are always the same- forget me nots, for remembrance, violets, for devotion, and clover. <em> (Think of me)</em>.</p><p>Tinfoilchef stays out of it- always has and always will. He’s too old to rush about searching or to feel as wildly as the others do. He feels, of course, but more so as the mountain does, steady and strong despite the winds that tear at its surface. Tommy is dead, but then, so are many of the people he has known in his life. It’s best to just keep plodding along.</p><p>BDubs is a mess. He had never spoken of it, but long before he had come to hermitcraft, he had had a daughter- a beautiful baby girl whose heart was too big for her chest, and she had died for that difference. He had grieved for years, but eventually the peace of the hermitcraft server had left him soothed, if a bit different than before. Tommy had been another chance at fatherhood, not that he could ever bear to call the teen that, even in the privacy of his own mind. Instead, he had taught the kid to build cobblestone towers that weren’t entirely offensive (if shaped a bit oddly) and had been the first to volunteer any time Grian was out and Tommy needed a place to spend the night when the nightmares were particularly fierce. They had so many fun sleepovers like that, and staring at those awful cobble towers in the distance, BDubs can’t help but bawl his eyes out at the memories. He waffles between taking the towers down or leaving them up- they really are ugly, and the feelings in his chest that they inspire are even more so, but somehow, he can’t bear to see them gone. Instead, he dries his eyes, flies off to grab a shulker of cobble, and sets about adding a few more to their number. A final remembrance for the boy he would have gladly claimed as his own, if only he hadn’t been too late. (He ends up building a lot more than a few).</p><p>Joe and Cleo are somehow the only ones who are actually neutral in the whole mess. Whenever they are asked their opinion on if Tommy is truly dead or not, the pair simply smile mysteriously and refuse to comment. Joe always seems to know more than he lets on and Cleo is his closest confidant, after all. Despite the anger and tears directed their way for refusing to commit to either side, the two keep their silence. (They know the truth of the matter, after all. Everything will be okay in time). </p><p>Xisuma has given up. Tommy is dead, and there is nothing he can do but spend days and days going over the code with a fine tooth comb, trying to find the glitch that cut the life of their youngest member short. Keralis takes it upon himself to take care of his long time friend, but it’s not an easy task, not when the other is so determined to make sure that such an incident never happens again. And Keralis can’t find it in himself to complain, especially since he is laboring under the impression that Xisuma agrees that Tommy is still out there and is trying to find him. It is only when Keralis mentions it in an aside, thanking the admin for his dedication, that Xisuma breaks the illusion and explains. Tommy isn’t just dead, he says tiredly, his very presence is well and truly wiped from the world’s code. All that is left of him is the faint impression his code had left behind, and trying to read it and understand what went wrong is a bit like trying to read small letters that have been drawn out in dry sand. Even for a voidwalker like himself such a task is near impossible, and Xisuma can only do so much. The needs of the many above the needs of the few- best to secure those he can now than worry over those that are gone beyond his reach. And Keralis can’t help but look at his friend with new eyes, a fleeting sense of betrayal in his heart. He had thought better of his Shishwammy, and he says as much. </p><p>He cries while Xisuma watches on in solemn, mournful silence.</p><p>---</p><p>TBC  :)</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. iJevin- Heartstone AU- Lethe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Builds off of the Heartstone AU<br/>characters: iJevin<br/>warnings: none</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rhythmic push-pull of the oars is a soothing comparison to the rapid tattoo his heart is beating against his chest, but even still, despite the calm of the waves, Jevin can hardly breathe. Tommy is missing. Tommy, the baby of the bunch, is missing.</p><p>And it has been days since anyone has seen him last.</p><p>When the hermits had gotten together, called to spawn by a stern-faced Xisuma, Jevin had been annoyed. He wasn’t exactly eager to start work on his base, it never seems to look right and he’s sick of it, but he’d been having a lovely time exploring the world to its fullest and he longed to get back to that. Sure, the news about Tommy had been worrying, but with so many people looking and everyone so- so competent, surely he would be found quickly, right? So when Xisuma asked for volunteers to search the seas, he had jumped at the opportunity.</p><p>Finally, a chance to get out there and explore beyond the reaches of what the other hermits had already colonized, and an even better excuse to get back to exploring (and ignoring his base). It had been fun- a vacation in all but name.</p><p>Until the buildings faded in the distance, the forests grew untouched, he passed deserts still full of sand. Until it got dark out and Tommy still had not been found. Until he couldn’t decide if it was better to deal with the constant frantic pinging of his communicator, or the crushing silence of leaving it off. </p><p>It was probably for the best that he was half slime. His hands would be covered in blisters by now if he was anything else.</p><p>A mesa biome again, this time with mountains tall enough for snow. How long has it been again? He’s sure that this is new territory, but the exact coordinates escape him. A sigh, a little stretch, and Jevin puts down the oars for a chance to simply sit and breathe. It’s quiet here, too, silent except for the hushed shhh-shhh of the waves and the whistling of the wind through the mesa canyons beyond. Quiet. A little lonely. And gosh he’s tired…</p><p>Enough. </p><p>Jevin picks up the oars, ignoring the watery feeling in his shoulders, and sets off again. The movement helps. Helps him ignore the- everything, kind of. The stress and the quiet and the fuzzy, muted anxiety lurking in the back of his brain- but then, he’s used to ignoring all of that. Movement helps, focusing on what he’s good at helps, and he’s good at the former so why not do a bit of the latter?</p><p>So he rows. On and on and on, past the mesa, the snow, the ice caps that follow. Ignores the exhaustion pulling at his limbs and the lurking worry about Tommy. Surely someone has found him yet, right? But. Wouldn’t someone have said something, told him if that were the case? No, better to just keep moving, travel a bit farther, a bit harder. He’ll find Tommy eventually. He’s got to. And if not him, then one of those funny flying guys, those hermits that volunteered to glide around on their elytra- they seem competent enough. With all those tricks they can pull in the air, surely they’ll get far enough out to find their kid. </p><p>On. And on. And on. Is he far enough yet? Has anyone said anything? Have they forgotten to tell him? Where could Tommy be? There’s no sign of the kid anywhere, just more pigs and cows. Savanna this time. He keeps going.</p><p>Mountains. Again. His muscles just straight up feel like water now. Heh, water. Surrounded by the stuff, practically is the stuff. If he fell in, he’d hardly be able to tell what was him and what was not. Would anyone notice, if his boat sank? He’s got to be pretty far out now, far enough that he’s probably pretty hard to find. Not quite as much distance as he would like to have made by now, but he’ll take what he can get. Jevin shakes the thoughts from his head and picks up the oars again. He keeps going.</p><p>It’s quiet.</p><p>… No sign of Tommy, and not for lack of trying. Maybe they’ve just given up? It’s the only reason he can think of why the kid hasn’t been found yet. With geniuses like Etho and Mumbo and Tango on the server, if they put 100% into it surely they would have gotten results by now. And still, silence. His communicator hasn’t made a peep in, oh, ages. Kinda worrying, if he’s honest, but he has other things on his mind these days. Best to just keep rowing.</p><p>He wonders if Tommy’s been forgotten about. (He wonders if he’s the only one.)</p><p>But still- On. And on. And on.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone Part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>warnings: none<br/>characters: Philza, Evil X, Joe Hills, ZombieCleo, Zedaph</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's not easy, knowing things. Joe knows more things than most, and oh, how it eats at him sometimes. He jokes with Cleo that between the two of them and their dogs, they are perhaps the leading experts on being chewed on, but she never laughs at that joke. He can't help but wonder why, his thoughts drifting as he lies still and silent in her arms, curled up together on his bed in the winery. Her orange hair tickles his nose as he moves to bury his face in her shoulder a bit more, her cool breath ghosting over the sticky tear tracks that still line his cheeks. All the things that remain unsaid lie between them, but their silent agreement binds them together tighter still. And indeed silence is the name of the game, however much he wishes it wasn't necessary- everything will work out in due time, he knows. But oh, how it aches that he can't say anything more on the matter, not even to her. </p><p>"Cleo?" The zombie woman makes a soft inquiring noise, politely ignoring how his voice cracks on the syllables. "Are we doing the right thing?" Her grip tightens again, almost crushingly so, and Joe goes limp at the implied rebuke. Be it right or wrong, his silence must be ensured- he knows so much that if he said anything, it'd all come pouring out. A real modern-day Cassandra, verbal fountain and harbinger of doom in one. No, best to stay cryptic when he can and silent when he can't- and if even his silence fails, Cleo is there, sword in hand, ready to keep him quiet. </p><p>He should not take comfort from that. But here, wrapped up in his best friend's embrace, utterly at her mercy and all the safer for it... He does anyway.</p><p>-----</p><p>Joe and Cleo aren't in a romantic relationship, but it would not be amiss to call them platonic life partners in this universe. Joe has been seeing things for as long as he can remember, the exact mechanics are strange and baffling at best, and if he tries to actually do any Science to figure out how this stuff works, the magic changes to spite him. It's led to a lot of unfortunate visions of peanut butter and how the server generally tends to misuse the stuff (Etho sometimes using it instead of slime in a sticky piston is a milder example), so after enough peanut visions to make him allergic on principle, Joe tends to just let the visions come as they may. The only hard-coded bit that comes with them is that anyone living who hears his prophecies won't believe them and will have something bad happen to them as a result. Cleo, being a zombie, is a special exception to the rule. She's only alive in the most technical of senses, so while bad things still happen to her if she hears Joe speak about his experiences, she at least will believe him. </p><p>Which is why she is so determined to <em>not</em> know more about whatever is going on with Tommy. When Joe had rushed in a month ago, tears streaming down his cheeks and glasses barely hanging onto his face, she had merely put down the book she had been reading and had opened her arms wide to him. Convincing him that she would not betray his trust or break his heart had been hard, but she had known it was worth it. How can it be anything but, when Joe had looked at her then as if she was the most precious being on the planet and had immediately thrown himself into her arms, bursting out into troubled tears? He offered to tell her the full story, eyes wet and longing, and her long-dead heart ached at the trust he is giving her- and she is far too selfish to give that up. So she had turned him down, smile on her lips.</p><p>Even when he whispered, voice hoarse, that they wouldn't be seeing Tommy for a while. Even when he shuddered and shook in her arms, fragile as glass in her grip. Even when he begged her to ask, just ask, please, it's too much... She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would be hurt and his heart would break because it had been his words that had hurt her. She would not, cannot, will <em>never</em> inflict that upon him, or let him inflict that upon anyone else. (Of all the heads in her collection, the one she has most of is Joe's.)</p><p>She simply asks him if there will be a satisfying ending, and when he says yes, she asks no more. Everything will be okay, in the end. So long as there is that much, so long as she has Joe in her arms and the comfortable silence stretches out between them, then she will be content.</p><p>(At the foot of their bed, deep in Joe's winery where the barking is muffled and the light cannot touch them, there lies a chest of heads. Inside it, nestled among the many faces of the dead, rests an old iron sword bearing the name <em>Hush</em>. It's blade is rusty from disuse, but if Cleo ever decides that she isn't satisfied, well. There are ways of dealing with that.)</p><p>(Things will be okay. <em>She'll make sure of it.</em>)</p><p>-----</p><p>Philza was no stranger to death. A veteran of a hardcore world, where even the very earth was out to kill him, he had seen his fair share of deaths and had dealt out even more. Usually just to the local mobs and wildlife, but there was still the occasional player dropped into his world by the cruel hands of the Void as a sort of "apology" for leaving him alone, bereft of his sons. As if some random strangers could ever fill the Void in his heart. </p><p>Most of them had wandered off upon seeing him, more interested in escape than any companionship he could offer them, and he'd inevitably see their death messages in the otherwise silent chat a few days later. Others would approach him, some curious, some desperate for kindness- he gave them none, was often intentionally cruel just to drive them away. He had the Void in his heart and the Void had him, and he ached and ached for what he could not have. Anything less would be a pale imitation, a mockery of the love he was desperate to return to. He tried not to think about how those kind strangers would also come to meet their ends, often more messily than those that had decided to leave him be to begin with.</p><p>Then there were the rare few with... less than gentle intentions. (Blood for the Blood gods, no matter the universe.)</p><p>Theirs were the deaths he regretted the least, but the blood still gave him nightmares. For all that he loved his sons, he never understood their love for glory, be it found in conquering other nations or the sticky ooze of a dying foe. Maybe that's why he had spent so much of his time with his elder sons when he returned, the Void finally releasing him from his hardcore prison. Just a father's attempt at understanding, even if it left his youngest at loose ends. </p><p>But the problem with loose ends, he had come to find, is that the world had a way of setting them to rights- either by tying them back into the grand narrative, or by cutting them out entirely. For months after Dream had come to him, apology on his lips and charred shoe in hand, he had believed that Tommy's fate had been the latter. He had  mourned his son as if such was the case, weeping openly at the news for the first time in years. (He wasn't the only one, though- Technoblade was an only child now and he was <em>not</em> taking it well.) It was only when Tubbo came to him with his compass to ask about its ever-spinning needle that he felt a spark of hope, for a compass that spun was not a compass linked to a dead soul- simply a lost one. Such hope was justified when, six months later, Technoblade burst into his house with a snarl on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Tommy had returned.</p><p>And as Phil stood, back straightening and wings spread wide, hope bloomed in his chest like hanahaki, choking him with love right down to his core. Tommy had returned, despite everything.</p><p>And Philza would not let him go again.</p><p>-----</p><p>For all that Tommy might have been... gone for at least a month now on the Hermitcraft server and life has significantly slowed down for all involved, by no means has it stopped entirely. The shops are still stocked, the torches are replaced when the old ones burn out, Hermits still go out and see each other, if less often than before. Xisuma, in fact, instates a series of mandatory meetings every week or so as a way of making sure that everyone is still alive- a bit of reassurance that no one else has died in the time interim. Even the hermits who prefer to keep to themselves show up, such as Tinfoilchef, Joe, and Cleo, although the latter two remain distinctly separate from everyone else on the server during the meetings, their refusal to take a side alienating them from the rest. Grian, broken though he may be, also comes, usually in the arms of Iskall or with a vacant smile on his face depending on the state of his mental health on the given day. His presence is also alienating, as most of the hermits don't quite know what to say around him and thus will give him and Iskall a bubble of space to themselves during the meetings. Mumbo is the only one to cross the divide, standing loomingly tall at Iskall's back, as if daring anyone to say something potentially hurtful to either of his friends. </p><p>Frankly, the entire concept of weekly meetings is a bit of a mess. Xisuma stands at the front with Keralis at his back, voice and posture more and more tired with every meeting and Keralis standing just a bit closer, a silent show of support (ready if his admin ever needs some physical support too). The prognosis is usually a mix of dull stuff and hopeless stuff- lag is better than it has been in years, the Chestmonster shop is out again, Tommy still has not been... found. It's not exciting exactly, but the tension during the reporting stage is palpable as everyone waits to hear if something else has gone wrong. It's a bit like being on the front lines- horrible, drawn-out minutes of tedium as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if another bombshell will drop but knowing that they <em>have</em> to be there, because some warning is infinitely better than seeing a death message in chat one day and not knowing if that person will ever make it back. </p><p>In addition to this is the tension that comes from the server being split in three- the believers, the mourners, and those too damaged or too caught up in their own narratives or too neutral to swing to one side or the other. </p><p>The meetings are where the most near-fights happen, and Xisuma is so, so tired of having to be the sane one these days. (The benefit of a helmet, he's come to find, is that no one can see you cry.)</p><p>(He doesn't take it off much anymore.)</p><p>-----</p><p>It's after one such meeting that Zedaph finds himself cooped up in his base, eyes burning with unshed tears and feet dangling out into the Void as he sits at the bottom of the hole in his base, the one that goes straight to bedrock and then even further still. The chill is a welcome distraction from his own inner turmoil, and for all that it's dangerous to be sitting so near to the edge of the world, he can't find it in himself to move away form its cold comfort. After all, Tommy can't have died permanently, right? So sitting there is perfectly <em>safe</em>. He has to believe that. He has to.</p><p>The meetings are tough on everyone, but sometimes Zedaph wonders if they are a bit worse for him than they are for the rest. It can't be normal that the first thing he does after every meeting is burst into panicked tears as soon as he gets back to his base, as he's certainly never felt such deep fear and relief after the meetings they had before the Incident. And yet, as soon as the iron door of his base sncks shut behind him, he drops down into the Void hole, sits at the edge, and bawls his eyes out. It's kinda funny- he's shed more tears in the last month than he has in his entire life so far. And all for a boy he had known for less than a year. </p><p>During this particular day, however, something odd happens. When he sits down for a good cry, it feels like there's the slightest of breezes coming off the Void beneath his feet, chilling him right down to his bones. It's cold, yes, but a welcome relief as he feels a bit like he's burning up from the inside out. Every moment he spends with Tango and Impulse is stifling, as with them he has to shove himself into a hateful mold he never wanted for himself. He doesn't like being angry, and being angry alongside his best friends is hardly any better. If he had it his way, he would have curled up in bed and simply slept the horror away, only waking when the nightmare was over and he could go play mini golf and Among Us with Tango, Impulse, and Tommy again. Instead, his love for his friends demands that he supports them in all their endeavors, even if their goals these days seem to run a little closer to "get them all killed" than is comfortable. </p><p>But yes. The breeze. It feels like ice on his skin and sends every nerve in his legs buzzing. It has a distinct smell to it too, like TV static, ozone, and that sensation you get after you brush your teeth and go take a big gulp of cold water. It's... odd. But vaguely comforting. And as the tears finally well up in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, as he lets himself sob for all the friends- both new and old- he's lost, he finds that it's exactly what he needs.</p><p>And if Zedaph would only listen a little closer, let himself see beyond his broken heart, perhaps he would hear the whisper on the wind, too. </p><p>
  <em>Everything will be okay. I'll make sure of it.</em>
</p><p>-----</p><p>Evil X has his own troubles to deal with. He had been present when Tommy had died, if watching from the wrong side of their dimension. Lost in the Void with nothing better to do, he had often found himself watching his friend go about his day. With space and time being as screwy as they were in the Void, he could find himself taking three steps and then would be watching Tommy go from sleeping over at BDub's base to having "breakfast" with Rendog. So when Grian and Tommy had gone out End-busting that fateful day, of course he had been watching.  And that was all he could do- watch- as he saw his best friend fall to his apparent death, that little line of code that signaled "perma-death" flashing once, twice, and then glowing a deep, ominous red. </p><p>But that wasn't the end of it, even as his dull and bruised heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.</p><p>Like a redstone pulse lighting up everything around it, that red glow set off a cascading chain reaction that rippled up and down Tommy's code until it eventually trailed out to wherever his code stretched out into the Void. There, it must have severed something because before he could even call for help, his friend's code yanked inwards and away, slingshotting the whole mess into the distant darkness beyond, leaving naught but a vague impression on the inside of his eyelids behind. It was... awful. One of the scariest things he had ever seen, perhaps second only to watching his brother, stern-faced and cold, send him off to the Void once again. But for all that it hurt to see that red glow and watch in mute horror as the server he had once tried to destroy shake itself apart at the seams, there was still hope.</p><p>The code was gone, yes, but not unraveled, not destroyed. Merely... transported. Moved. Like a file being sent from one computer to another, or a player teleporting between servers. Tommy's code vanishing like that was cause for alarm, yes, but somewhere out there in the vastness of the Void, it lingered still- and it had left a faint impression of itself in its wake. That meant there was hope.</p><p>Evil X- and by proxy, his twin Xisuma- were voidwalkers, beings specifically designed to see, understand, and even modify the world's code. Were he anything else, he surely would have perished by now, his consciousness scattered across the Void as it was. And having been in exile for so long, he had gotten to be adept at seeing the seams between worlds and reading the truths of existence as the Void had intended for her children. If anyone could follow that faint trail, it would be him. </p><p>For the first time in a long time, Evil X had hope. And hope is a vicious motivator indeed.</p><p>-----</p><p>TBC :)</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Hermitcraft Cast- Sky's Limit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warnings- mentions of prostitution, mentions of class difference and all the troubles that entails, mentions of fantasy racism</p>
<p>Characters- everyone in Hermitcraft (except Hypno, I know legit nothing about him, sorry)</p>
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    <p>This was the product of a plot bunny I got while watching the newest animated music video by Porter Robinson, and it features pretty much all the hermits. Long into the distant future, there is a city of gleaming white and technological marvels. Electricity is entirely clean, its people are always happy, and life- as it has always done- goes on. However, for all it seems like a utopia, there is one facet that may seem out of place. The city is truly, utterly silent. Sure, there are voices and happy chatter, laughter on street corners and children running in the streets. But there is no hum, no electric buzz that most crafters of the past would have been familiar with. There is no redstone. For indeed, the red dust is entirely illegal and those who work with it are relegated to the city’s dark underbelly. And not all of them are happy to be there. It is in this city, the city of Sky’s Limit, that I have dropped our hermits. Time will tell what happens next.</p>
<p>A story in which the world has been… purified. Think skyblock, portrayed as a world of natural wonder, soft angles and high rises that scrape the clouds above, all in shimmering shades of pearlescent white. The only noise is the rushing of the wind through the grass far, far below and the distant echo of passing conversation and laughter. There are no cars, no chatter of coms, no hissing creepers or vroomping, thieving endermen. Just peace. And sometimes, if you listen carefully enough, the flapping of wings as the most blessed of the city’s inhabitants fly  overhead, the celebrity darlings and envy of everyone below. </p>
<p>For some of the hermits, life is good. Bdubs, Xisuma, Grian, and Jevin are all upper nobility. Xisuma and Grian are some of the lucky few with wings (bee and bird respectively for X and G), while Jevin is blessed simply for being sky blue and transparent- and a being so like the sky must surely be worthy of high ranking. Surely. Xisuma is an administrator of the city, one of those who keep track of the nitty-gritty bits, like how much food each sector goes through a month, the efficiency of the watering systems in the fields, etc. Grian is just a straight up celebrity darling, beloved by the people for his pranks and personality. Late at night, he runs a TV talk show. Jevin has a seat on the city governance, one of thirteen “elected” chancellors. Bdubs is another chancellor, low-key the one in charge, as it was his idea to create a city of white, one that ran on clean energy and lawfulness, who drew up the first blueprint and built much of the city himself. It’s said that there’s no corner of it he isn’t aware of, no part that he didn’t have a hand in designing. While this isn’t quite the case, one thing is certain- BDubs certainly has “designs” and they are very grand indeed.</p>
<p> After these hermits fall the ones who are middle class. Stress is a well-trusted doctor in the city’s finest hospital. She believes in the system that saved her life so long ago with all her heart and does her best to keep the city and its people running as best as they possibly can. Compassion and lawful goodness fall into the same boat for Stress, which can sometimes end poorly for criminals who go to her for medical care, thinking that surely a doctor as kind as Stress would never turn away someone, even if they have broken the law. What they forget is that becoming a doctor takes a spine of steel, and Stress has gone one step above the rest- she has a spine of chrome, and she will do what she must to keep her city running strong. (Incidentally, that chrome spine of hers? Not hyperbole, an “accident” at 6 made sure of that.) </p>
<p>Vintagebeef runs a butcher shop and is mid to low ranking. He serves the best sandwiches in the city, as attested to by his best customers, Rendog and Falsesymmetry. </p>
<p>Rendog is a happy go lucky reporter who spends equal time chasing skirts as he does chasing his next scoop. False is a beat cop, one of the best, and she’s gone viral at least once for dumping criminals who think that just because she's a girl that means she can’t fight. She’s particularly embarrassed (and a bit proud) of the video of her literally picking up a criminal and dumping him the nearest trash chute. Welsknight, the unfortunate garbage man, was quite unhappy to have to remove the criminal from the chute, as for all of False’s strength, she wasn’t quite strong enough to pry the man loose again. He now low-key follows False around to clean up all of her messes as while the media at large is quite fond of her feats, the local infrastructure isn’t.  Somehow, he always ends up at the right place at the right time. </p>
<p>Scar is a bit down on his luck, but overall is doing pretty well for himself. He’s one of the architects for the city, was in fact famous for a time for creating a specific style of sheer white skyscraper that allowed for more solar panels to be placed along its side. However, 2 years later and people are starting to realize that for some reason, his buildings aren’t as efficient as they ought to be and his designs have since fallen out of favor. Rendog had taken great joy running his name through the muck, unfortunately, as a man’s got to eat and for all the Scar is a nice guy, a renowned architect falling from grace makes for quite the scoop. The two don’t like each other much, but they’ve never actually seen each other’s faces. Anyway, Scar has been living off of his savings, hoping that someone up top would care enough about him to fix the issue and find out what went wrong. After 2 years of nothing, however, he has realized that if he ever wants to figure out the mystery of his buildings’ lack of efficiency, he’ll need to find out himself.</p>
<p> Little does he know, Keralis, the architect that replaced him, has been doing quite well for himself and the last thing he wants is to lose his position to the guy he had replaced. While a generally nice guy, Keralis has had a taste of the high life and now there’s no going back. He knows what Scar is up to, and is quite… invested in keeping the status quo. No. Matter. What. </p>
<p>Joe Hills runs a bookstore. A completely normal bookstore. Yes, really officer, I promise. Just like how XB, his best friend and right hand man, employee of the month, every month, is entirely average in every way and has never done anything wrong in his life, ever. </p>
<p>There is one more among the hermits who has wings- Etho. Or rather, had. Etho had his wings cut off for undisclosed crimes against the city and now works in a toy shop on the outskirts of town. He’s thoroughly mysterious and always looks tired, but his toys and trinkets business does surprisingly well and he always seems happy, behind that mask of his. The only hint that this isn’t quite the case is the tightness around his eyes. A secret? When they told him that the pain would never stop, that awful night when they burnt his wings off? He didn’t believe them. (Oh god, the way it smelled.) He really, really should have. </p>
<p>You’ve heard about the shining white walls, the perfect healthcare, the love the people hold for the city and the rigor with which they defend it. The quiet, the peace, the wonderful golden silence found in its streets and reflecting from its windows. Even the light seems quieter there. If you’re smart, you may have picked up that something isn’t quite right with the city, that 2/3s of our cast seems to be missing. You’d be right, almost. Mumbo, Cub, Cleo? They aren’t missing- they’re hiding. And they have very good reason to do so. </p>
<p>The city’s name is Sky’s Limit, and it is built on a foundation of marble and hard, cold law. It is a city of white… and black. And lurking in its shadows are all those that do not belong, those whose colors do not fit, those who can’t afford the brilliant marble towers or the plastic smiles popularized by the rich and famous. It is a city choked into silence by its secrets and one thing it cannot abide is the humming electric whine of redstone. And those who practice it are criminals in the eyes of the law, to be persecuted to its fullest extent and often, even beyond. Even to the grave, if needs must or the council orders such. And BDubs is so very, very fond of his restful, quiet beauty sleep. Not everyone agrees with these laws however, and brewing in the black, sunless shadows of the city’s underbelly are those determined to see the city shine red. </p>
<p>Zedaph is the closest to legal of the underground hermits- he has to be when he has two more mouths to feed, Tango and Impulse. Although the latter two are redstone geniuses and do well in making food stretch and and make their ramshackle rented apartment livable, it is Zedaph alone who  fake any marketable skills. While Impulse and Tango do their best to keep the lights on and use redstone wiring to steal power from the city’s solar- and wind-powered electrical grid, Zedaph peddles the doodads and toys he makes to the poorest children of the city. Many of them still contain some measure of redstone, as it's nigh-impossible to ignore its thrumming call entirely if you are born to do the stuff, but his target audience is usually too young, too uneducated, and too scared of the law to recognize it or say anything about it. And if a bit of redstone Impulse or Tango put together can help someone make it another day, and Zedaph can make it look passably legal? Well, some of the poorest housewives and mothers can look the other way .</p>
<p>The trio are happy together, but making ends meet is hard and with summer coming, resources are soon to be harder to get than ever. (A city of light and pure white? Things start to heat up fast, and water becomes more precious than ever. And with summer coming, it means less water gathering in puddles and drain pipes in the city, and thus less water for the underground redstoners and hybrids to tap into.) Little does Zedaph know, however, he’s caught the attention of another toymaker in the city.</p>
<p> In addition to this, Tango is getting restless, frustrated with the trio’s lot in life. Even under normal circumstances he can’t sit still, and being cooped up inside all the time because his glowing red eyes give him away as being both a hybrid and really in tune with redstone? It sucks. A lot. Impulse tries to keep his buddy distracted, but there’s only so much he can do, and now, Tango has been disappearing at odd hours, frequently when he and Zedaph are trying to sleep, and coming back with an odd look in his eyes. Just a few days ago he had found the remains of a charred pamphlet in their dumpster out back. Something is coming to head, and Impulse isn’t sure he’s going to like the outcome. Not that he’d ever mention the mounting tension to Zedaph, of course. His buddy has enough to worry about. </p>
<p>ZombieCleo… runs a speakeasy/burlesque show underneath Joe’s bookstore. She has his full approval of course, and they’re fast friends under the merits of he’s one of the only decent men she’s ever met. It helps that he’s hardcore aro-ace and has no interest in her or her girls. Cleo, being a zombie hybrid, knows all too well about the tough life being a hybrid is and how it can make people turn to awful things just to make ends meet. She knows that doing sex work is the last thing her girls want to be doing, not that they have a choice, and she does her best to do right by them. She protects her workers viciously, and if any of her patrons try to treat her girls too roughly, or try to skip out on payment? Well, being a hybrid comes with a few perks and a nice pair of teeth and nails is all part of the package. Coincidentally, Joe is awfully good at hiding a body. </p>
<p>Doc is perhaps the most down on his luck of the hermits. As both a redstoner and an obvious hybrid, he can’t find work, he can’t find anyone willing to rent to him, he can barely even find food enough to eat. He’s resorted to petty theft and squatting, and if it wasn’t for his ruthless determination that this city would not be the death of him, he would have laid down and given up long ago. Not even the occasional rendezvous with the local garbage cans is enough to deter him (courtesy of the local beat cop. That woman is terrifying). </p>
<p>It’s on one such day, trying to pry himself out of yet another trashcan far too small for him, that Doc finally gets his lucky break. The old man to whom the trashcan belongs to comes out, hoping to dispose of his waste for evening, and instead finds the creeper hybrid there, cursing up a storm and angry enough to kill. The sight would almost be threatening to TFC if, you know, he hadn’t seen worse and the hybrid in question looked like he hadn’t had a good meal for years. TFC invites Doc inside after helping to pry him loose, and Doc, while suspicious, accepts. TFC low key makes Doc move in with him and treats the man well, seeing as the poor hybrid reacts to every little thing as if he had never seen kindness. TFC also begins to tell stories to Doc about the time before the city was built, before redstone was outlawed and hybrids were looked down upon as lesser beings. And Doc, utterly enchanted by the concept, begins to have… ideas.</p>
<p> Iskall was in the same position as Doc for a while, but they too get their lucky break. They get picked up by Mumbo Jumbo and is introduced to the Cotillion, the rebel group who are out to shake the city to its very foundations and bring about an age of redstone dominance. Mumbo and the hundreds of people under him plan on breaking the social order and instating redstoners and hybrids as the top dogs, and Iskall finds themself shocked that the rebels seem to have the organization and resources to actually do it. Mumbo is witty and charismatic, seemingly always having a plan and a silver-tongued speech to go with it. He also installs Iskall as second in command, much to their shock. Time will tell if the Cotillion is going to succeed.</p>
<p> Cub is living in one of Scar’s buildings, along with many other redstoners. Just... Not entirely legally.</p>
<p>This is pretty much the end of the world-building section, I’ll come out with a post on the general plot as soon as I can. TBC :)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone Part 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>warnings: implied drugging of a minor<br/>characters: Stress, Evil X, Tommyinnit, Philza, Technoblade</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Void isn’t cold, not to Evil X. His pressurized suit is enough protection from the worst of it, but even if he were to take his helmet off, it wouldn’t be cold- just the absence of heat. And that is what the Void is, at its core- absence, that in and of itself is crushing enough. Years, decades, minutes and centuries in one. A hundred thousand seconds spent floating in an inky sea of lack-of-light with the slow, gradual shifting in the weave of the code as his tide and the distant death screech of the Queen-Mother Dragon echoing out in quiet, pulsing waves. Sometimes a glitch happened in Hermitcraft and it rippled through the code-sea, sending Evil X tumbling through the black. It hurt, in a sort of glitchy-static sort of way, but at least it was interesting. Sometimes, Evil X took potshots at the code of Hermitcraft just to make something new happen. A little excitement was worth the pain, frankly, as the monotony of it all was perhaps the worst of it, if one didn’t account for the touch starvation or the lack of purpose or the dearth of all sound but the low thrum of death or… yeah. It sucked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he was lucky, or in the right state of mind, he could reach out and touch the code that surrounded him, much like how when swimming one might kick in such a way as to create little eddies around one’s toes. Some pieces of code were more material than others, glowing in the dark like angler fish, giving him a chance to reach out and leave his mark on the world outside. And if the little holes that let him knock over his brother’s coffee were fireflies, then Tommy is- had been- a star. Bright enough to talk to, to touch. To hug, once, on a particularly bad day when his boy had been having a panic attack out in the snow, tears crusting his eyelashes with soft frost. But his star had gone out and all that was left was a thin trailing line of red, flowing out into the darkness to wherever his boy may be. And with it, his course is clear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Evil X had had everything taken from him, once. It had left him a bitter shell of a man and that had only urged him to commit greater violence upon himself and others. His exile, his pain, his fury and his fear, all fuel for his general hate for people as a whole and for the Hermits more specifically. He burned, and when his fire ran out, his treacherous (wonderful) brother caught him like a rat in a trap and dumped right back to whence he came to “cool off,” or so he put it. And perhaps his brother’s plan had worked, for when he found that glowing string of code deep in the black, he had latched on with both hands and followed it through every moment that he could. A boy, as vitriolic and foul-mouthed as he, who understood what it meant to hate and accepted that Evil X never could bring himself to fully forgive his family for what they had done to him. Cocooned under a mountain of blankets one sleepless night, the boy, Tommy, shared that he too didn’t think he could forgive them- whoever “they” were. But that someday, he might like to try. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And upon hearing that, Evil X knew that he would follow the boy anywhere. Just to protect him, of course. Such kindness would only get him stabbed in the back, and a bit of spite could do a body good. Really. (Gods, had it really been two years now? Since he had seen his brother last? He </span>
  <em>
    <span>ached</span>
  </em>
  <span>.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But yes. Once upon a time, Evil X had lost everything. He would not let it happen again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-----</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If the Void is one part ocean, a Mariana’s trench of code, then it is two parts cruel vacuum of space, and another part still Jacob’s ladder, ready to dump him head first between one point in time and space and the next. What this means is that travelling through the Void is annoying at best and bloody painful at worst, although being a Voidwalker eases some of that burden. Rather than being a human groping blindly at the bottom of the sea, he’s rather a bit more like a mermaid (Evil X cringes at the thought, but if the shoe fits). Sure, the simultaneous crushing pressure and the stretchy feeling of being pulled apart like taffy is less than pleasant, but at least he isn’t drowning on top of it. Nor is he groping blindly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The faint red impression that Tommy’s code left when it was ripped from the world glows dully before him, a fishing line and lure in one, drawing him slowly to the surface. Steeling himself for the journey ahead, Evil X fixes his thoughts on that one hug, on the burning in his eyes when he saw that brilliant boy fall… And swims. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has a long way to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-----</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stress wakes up to a mouth that tastes like mint chip ice cream, which is only slightly better than the sickly sweet strawberry it had been two days before. Immediately she groans, throwing an arm over her eyes and rolling over to bury her face in her biggest, fluffiest pillow. Mornings come too soon…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Golden afternoon light filters through her window, lancing through her skull and lighting up both her room and her growing headache. It passes over the worn pink rugs, the mountain of fuzzy blankets she is cocooned in, and her old drum kit in the corner, before settling upon the dusty chests shoved up against the back wall. Blearily, Stress opens an eye and looks over her storage system of unused before building materials, mentally going over on autopilot how much quartz she would need for a unicorn in her back garden, before groaning again.  Back to her pillows she goes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t have the spoons for this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only when the light from her window dims to a manageable level with the setting sun that she finally leaves her blanket burrito and drags herself down the stairs and into her kitchen, set on filling her rumbling stomach with more sticky green and brown goodness. Even then a blanket is draped over her shoulders, it’s bright lavender and yellow stripes a sharp contrast to the tear tracks on her face and overall gloomy expression. She steadfastly ignores the pictures that line the walls, especially any of a blue-eyed boy with a voice like sunshine and a laugh like screaming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Was he screaming, when he fell? Her nightmares can never decide).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ice cream. Tired zombie brain says ice cream good, so it’s to the freezer she goes, spoon in hand. The nearly empty tub of mint chip stands waiting for her and she grimaces at the dregs at the bottom- eesh, that’s not nearly enough for a full meal. What else… strawberry, ew, more chocolate fudge but she’s not sure her empty stomach can handle the richness, lemon sorbet… It’s the vanilla that gives her pause. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey, hey, Stress! Stress my man- woman- fuck, sorry- ay check it what I got!” She rolls her eyes and hides her grin as she sets the soapy tea cup down on the countertop and turns to face her back window. Any second now… THUNK.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Got em. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What the hell, man, what the fuck did I do to you? Is that. Is that fuckin clear glass, fuckin hell man, what kind’a bitch move is that? Ain’t it enough that I get this shit from that Keralis fella, now you be doin’ it too? Not cool, dude. Woman. Fuckin’ hell, what’s this server comin’ to…” Oh gosh, it’s better that she had imagined.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The disgruntled teenager is plastered up against the window in the back of her skull base, clinging desperately to the window edge and eyeing the ten foot drop down to the ground distrustfully. His smiley-face mask hangs around his neck, the reason for such an oddity clear when she sees the bright red circular imprint edging his leery expression. It looks just like he had had a suction cup taken to him, oh no.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Pffttt….” Oh, oh no. Immediately Tommy’s eyes widen and snap to her as she tries to muffle her burgeoning laughter in her hands, leaning back against the sink where she had been doing her dishes just moments prior. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are. Are you fuckin’ laughing?! What the shit!” Oh gosh, he looks like a </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>toad</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. Eyes goggling, mouth open wide enough to catch flies, he’s the very picture of flabbergasted betrayal and it should not be as funny as it is, it really shouldn’t be, but just. His </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>face</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Laughter rolls up from deep in her chest like a wave and soon she’s clutching the countertop desperately, trying to stay upright and upon seeing her utter glee, Tommy’s expression morphs into one of bemused chagrin. “This is for that one time I tricked you into eating vanilla ice cream with mud instead of chocolate sauce, ain’t it?” She nods, wheezing out a choked “Language!” Oh gosh, she can’t </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>breathe</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The moment is suddenly interrupted by a sudden wetness at her back and Stress shrieks, turning to see that she had forgotten to turn the water off and now a deluge of soapy water is soaking her floors, her shoes, and the entirety of the back of her shirt. Now it’s Tommy’s turn to laugh, grin bright like sunshine in London and twice as rare, and even as she sheepishly shuts off the tap, she can’t help but join in.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The little crystal drops hanging from the window by her sink cast glittering rainbows over them both as they laugh and laugh and laugh.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To borrow a few words from a friend she just knows she’ll never seen again- Fucking. Hell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nope. No more ice cream for her today. Stress slams the door of her freezer and instead reaches blindly into her fridge, pulling out a bedraggled bag of lettuce and a bottle of vinaigrette which she dumps over the sorry-looking greens as she marches over to the couch and her waiting book. The dressing won’t do much to the taste, not like ice cream or chocolate sauce would, but she’ll eat it anyway. It’s salad. Spite salad. It’s not like she’s running on much else than grief these days, perhaps a bit of spite would do her good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Flopping onto the sofa and immediately cozying into her waiting blanket heap, she decides against yet more reading as another wave of exhaustion washes over her. Maybe just a meal today, then. A small step forward is better than none after all. And if Stress is crying as she determinedly digs into her salad? Well. She’ll deal with that when she has more fucks to give.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually. Not today. Not for a while yet. But eventually, someday, things will get better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(She hopes).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-----</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room is filled with shades of blue and white- blue quilted bedspread, white polar-bear fur rug (Steve shed a lot), an old hand-made toy chest pulled out from storage and painted to match. It was filled with half a dozen blocky toy soldiers, miniature sailboats, and carved birch swords, toys from a childhood he had long thought forgotten. Two tall bookcases filled with books he had never read, a blue cloak in the closet, thick blue drapes pulled back from the lone window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy lies on his bed, sleep pulling at his eyelids as the sun sets in the distance. There are bars over the glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shadows soon fall over the little room, casting everything in soft shades of black and silver, a softness mirrored in Tommy’s mind as he drifts off to sleep- safe, against all odds. And as Tommy sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of a wooden door that creaks open for all but him and the sound of footsteps and wingbeats on the wind. He dreams of soft hands braiding feathers into his hair, tracing the lines of nose and cheek, lingering over the tear tracks at the corners of his eyes. At the touch, his eyes creak open and the dream muzzily takes the shape of a winged man bent over him, worn face now wondering and open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Dad?” The hand’s are back, now recognizable as the calloused ones he remembered from his childhood, back when he had only ever known them to be gentle. A soft hush, a kiss pressed to his temple.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shh, shh. It’s okay. You’re okay. Go back to sleep, you’ll still be here in the morning, don’t fret.” Tommy leans into the hand cupping the back of his head, staring up at his dad with wide eyes- blue now, of such a shade and clarity that Phil had almost forgotten what they looked like. Even now, with his boy half asleep, they are positively electric. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Da, where…” a yawn, “Where’s my brother?” Philza tilts his head, bird-like. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you mean Techno? Or Wilbur? Techno’s just downstairs, he’ll be up with soup right about-” a knock on the door, which quickly swings upon with a soft click, letting in the glow of the hall light. “Ah. About now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got soup. Figured he was sick of potato by this point, so I found a rabbit for it this time.” A second set of footsteps, heavier this time, and a creak as a second figure settles onto the corner of Tommy’s bed, brilliant white eyes staring out at him from behind an ominous pig skull mask. That is all Tommy can glimpse as his eyes slip shut again, even as Phil takes the bowl from Techno’s hands and presses it to his slack lips, helping him drink the oddly bitter liquid. He grimaces at the medicinal taste before sleep begins pulling at his limbs once more. Determinedly he shakes his head, looking back up at his father and at Techno.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Phil looks at his youngest oddly, mentally going over the number of children he had adopted in the past years. “...Ranboo?” Another faint shake of denial. “Who then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A yawn, and then, softly, hesitantly- “Dad? Where’s Grian?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps it is for the best that Tommy slips into sleep soon after, because if he had looked up, he would have seen the horror and fear on his father’s face at the name. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grian. Grian Dreamslayer. Of course. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philza’s heart freezes in his chest and as he looks over at his eldest son, he can see the matching trepidation and growing determination lurking in his eyes. Already his mind is working over the number of potions he would need, the ways to farm ender pearls without access to the end, the preparations he would have to do for the second riskiest endeavor he had ever taken on (the first being parenting, of course).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grian. Whuff, well then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time to go fight god.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Ranboo and Tubbo- Boom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>characters- Ranboo and Tubbo<br/>warnings- none</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The music pounds in loop in the background as the taller teen pushes his way out the club, the pink and green lights flashing dimly against the velvet black of his suit and casting his crisp white shirt in shades of neon. His tail swishes behind him time to the music, and Tubbo follows along behind, gaze fixed on it like a lure. </p><p>“Ay big man, where do you think they bought the alcohol? Do you think their supplier is, like, legal?”</p><p>Ranboo sighs and not so gently shoves a woman in a too tight cocktail dress out of his way, thoroughly fed up with the night. “Tubbo, did you steal someone’s drink?”</p><p>The shorter boy laughs, rubbing a bit as where his dark green suit jacket had been chafing his elbow for the past hour. “Nah, just been here before is all. Phil’s had me do runs here a couple times, back when this piece of the area wasn’t under his control.”</p><p>A groan and a facepalm. “That’s dangerous. Like, really dangerous. And don’t think I didn’t hear you imply that you had simply nicked a drink sometime before this.” Tubbo just laughs at his friend, using his smaller size to his advantage to push his way through the drunken masses, speeding ahead to leave Ranboo to make a series of hurried apologies as he chased after him. </p><p>“It’s the mafia, of course it’s dangerous! That’s what makes it fun!”</p><p>“You promised me this whole ‘friend date’ thing wouldn’t be illegal!” Ranboo watches in horror as his best friend spins on his heel to grin at him, just barely missing bumping into a passing server carrying a silver tray of acid green shots.Tubbo just shrugs, walking backwards and grinning, before waving his hand and producing a little blue button from… somewhere. </p><p>The beat shifts to a faster rhythm and the lights start flashing to match, glinting brightly off of Tubbo’s teeth, and suddenly Ranboo is reminded of just why his older brother, Dream, had cautioned him against the younger boy. </p><p>“Oh no, this isn’t illegal. Nothing is illegal right now, ‘cept maybe the taste of the drinks here. It’s not like the cops care if I have this.” Another flourish and suddenly the button is gone again from Tubbo’s fingers, presumably tucked away somewhere in his jacket. “Wanna know a secret, Ranboo? Nobody cares around here, it’s great! So long as you’re under Phil, you can do whatever you want!”</p><p>Ranboo pauses in his tracks, warily looking around and craning his neck to see above the dazed sea of bodies to check and see if anyone had overheard them. “Yeah, but like, I’m not one of Phil’s. That’s like actual treason to say in this city, you know- definitely illegal.” Tubbo just smiles again, all beguiling innocence and blades in the night. He takes a few careful steps forward, hopping from tile to tile to dodge a spilled puddle of something, then takes Ranboo’s hand to gaze up at him adoringly. Now even more thoroughly unnerved, the taller boy stares straight back, feeling oddly like a mouse in a gilded trap.</p><p>“Haha, that’s funny big man. Nah, I’m Phil’s and you’re mine, so like, it evens out right? What’s it- trans- translashive… transitive… some math policy. Now c’mon, I want out of here.”</p><p>The pair stumble out of the double doors of the club just in time for Ranboo’s brain to catch up with what his friend had said. “Wait wait wait, what do you mean <em>yours</em>? Doesn’t that- are you <em>mine</em>? And what’s all this about…” His heterochromic eyes widen in realization as Tubbo pulls out the blue button and presses it. </p><p>“C’mon Ranboob, cool guys don’t look as explosions. <em>Let’s bounce</em>!”</p><p>A wide and cheery grin, a soft warble of fear, and the faint burnt sugar of nitroglycerin on the wind. The sun sets over the city skyline and behind them, the music wavers out one last, pounding note before-</p><p><em><b>boom</b></em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Like what I do? Want to ask me something, or poke at me to elaborate on a bit? Hit me up on my tumblr <a href="https://archetypal-archivist.tumblr.com/">@archetypal-archivist</a> or hit me up in the comments below. See you there!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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